This book has been written in connection with a Bazaar held in Crieff in the month of August, 1896, for the better endowment of the Parishes of ARDOCH, CRIEFF WEST, GLENDEVON, and MONZIE. The Editorial Committee venture to hope that the contents will be of some interest to the dwellers in Strathearn, especially those within the bounds of the Presbytery of Auchterarder. The warm thanks of the promoters of the Bazaar are due to the ladies and gentlemen who composed the various Committees. To them, as representing many hearty sympathisers and willing workers, the "CHRONICLES OF STRATHEARN" is respectfully dedicated.
In name of the Editorial Committee,
JOHN HUNTER, M.A., CRIEFF.
HUGH M. JAMIESON, MONZIE.
INTRODUCTION
THE OPENING UP OF STRATHEARN
By Rev. JOHN HUNTER, M.A., Crieff
Quite recently it was said to me by a man who had been holiday-making in Switzerland, that he greatly missed the Alps in every home landscape. The remark was made on the Knock of Crieff, one beautiful afternoon in the late autumn, when the sun was setting and the after-glow lay like a purple semi-transparent mist all along Glenartney from Ben Ledi to Comrie. I felt rich enough in the enjoyment of the surpassing loveliness of our own Strath to say "Laich in"—(I would not hurt any person's feelings for the world)—"Plague take your Alps, with their sky-scraping ridges and peaks and winding sheets of snow—we don't want them here; they would simply spoil a scene like that before us." I don't know, and may never know, the meaning my companion read into my silence. Having shortly before made the frank confession that I had never seen the Alps, he may have intended to excite envious feelings within me, and imagined he had succeeded. But I can deny the fact with a good conscience, and until some benevolent person shall give me the opportunity of making a comparison between home and foreign landscapes, I shall continue to assert—happy in my ignorance, it may be, but still happy—that there is no fairer prospect upon earth than the Strath of Earn from the Knock of Crieff. "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."
Let me adventure to describe it. Right opposite to the south-west is Turleum—rising to the height of 1300 feet—the highest hill in Scotland wooded to the top, as our local boast was—shorn of its beauty somewhat in recent years, but, although bare, still picturesque enough with its comb of sturdy fir-trees, survivors from the destructive gale of November, 1893. To the right of it, and running due west, is the pass into the misty hill country by Comrie and St. Fillans—the glen of Bonnie Kilmeny and Dunira. Midway between us and the mouth of the pass is a miniature Turleum—Tomachastel to wit, the site of the old Castle of the Earn, famous in the days when the Celtic Earls of Strathearn were a power in the land. Lovers of the old ways were these proud and wily Earls—fiercely impatient of the incoming Saxon customs which found favour at the Court of Malcolm Canmore and his sons—genuinely pious men, too, in some instances—(did not Earl Gilbert found or endow Inchaffray, so that masses might be said for his soul?)—of a keen courage as with Earl Malise, who at the Battle of the Standard dared his mail-clad fellows—the barons of King David—to show themselves a single foot in advance of his naked breast. Right worthy and most noble men they were in their noblest—they were not all so—cherishers of the national spirit in the dreary times that followed upon the death of Alexander III. at Kinghorn, like the one who gave a fair daughter of the house and land in tocher to the son of Sir Andrew Moray, patriot and friend of Wallace, in whom the Morays of Abercairny find their origin. Such were the men; and over there on Tomachastel was their home—a place famous then, and very noticeable still, with its gleaming memorial obelisk to "oor Davie" of Ferntower, the hardy soldier who overcame the fierce Tippoo Sahib at Seringapatam. Beyond lie the Aberuchill Hills, with the flat pyramidal face of Ben Voirlich filling up a gap, and sending its roots, on one side, down into "lone Glenartney's hazel shade," and, on the other, into Loch Earn—sixteen miles away. Further off, and only to be seen on rare days, when the sun's rays are dancing to be dry after rain, are sturdy, broad-shouldered Benmore, and slender, graceful Binnein, the twin guardians of the enchanted region beyond, where Beauty lies in the lap of Terror, and the Atlantic surf sings lullaby. There are the Monzievaird hills to the right, rising in Benchonzie to the height of 3048 feet, and to something under this figure in the Cairngorm or Blue Craig, upon which you see the stone-heap of Cainnechin—memorial, as it is said, of a battle fought within what are now the policies of Ochtertyre, and as the result of which Malcolm II. came to the throne of Scotia, having defeated and slain his rival Kenneth Duff or Don—Kenneth, the swarthy—"at a place where two valleys meet." Many battles have been fought out in the Strath, for it must always have been a rich prize; but this one has a special historical interest, inasmuch as it connects us with one of the great tragedies in our annals, in which the genius of Shakespeare found material for one of his masterly delineations of the strange workings of human passion. It is said that Fraoch, wife of Macbeth Maormor of Moray, had a good claim to the throne as the grand-daughter of this Kenneth Duff, and, prompted by ambition and revenge, instigated her husband to the murder of his Sovereign and guest—the gracious Duncan, grandson of Malcolm II., at Bothgowan, near Elgin. Loch Turret lies in the gorge that separates Benchonrie from the Blue Craig. It is likely enough that the descendants of the wild fowl that Robert Burns scared on the occasion of his visit to Ochtertyre still nest and pair in the solitude.
To the left of Turleum is a wider expanse, that carries the eye to the Moor of Orchill, which overlooks the plain of Ardoch—the Lindum of the Romans—traditional scene of the battle of Mons Grampus. Some miles away Stirling finds shelter under its rock—not visible to us, however, where we stand, and only audible across the intervening twenty-two miles when birthday and other honours are paid to Royalty.
The Ochil range—memorial of fierce volcanic action when the lower old red sandstone was being deposited in the inland lake which stretched from east to west across the Lowlands of Scotland, and away southward without a break to the southern uplands, close to the border of England;—this Ochil range, which means high ground, as Glenogle means high glen, bounds our view to the south-east. It has no towering peaks, but Bencleuch and its neighbour, King Seat, command magnificent panoramic views to north and south from an elevation of 2000 feet. The gap before us is Gleneagles—Glen-eccles—Kirk glen—one of the passes into the Lowlands of Fife and Kinross, by which, it may be, Agricola found his way into Strathearn after the conquest of Fife. In the very heart of the Ochils its name changes from Gleneagles to Glendevon. Here again we are upon classic ground—in the vale of the clear winding Devon, which more than any other stream recalls Yarrow with its hills green to the top and its pastoral melancholy. And let me note the fact that here, too, is the tiniest and daintiest parish church in Scotland—the outpost of the Presbytery of Auchterarder in this direction.
Between us and the gap, but much nearer the gap, is a bit of rising ground, running eastward almost parallel with the Ochils, with a downward slope from west to east, upon which may be seen, if the atmosphere is clear, smoking chimneys and a faint ruddy hue, as if with the memory of tiles now discarded for the prosaic if more permanent roofing slate. That is the "lang toon" of Auchterarder, climbing up the slope somewhat after the fashion of the Canongate and High Street of Edinburgh, not so conspicuously or hurriedly, however, as if aware that there was no Castle Rock from which to view the fertile Strath below. An ancient place, truly, pedigreed, but by no means penniless, the Presbytery seat, famous in ecclesiastical annals for its creed, crotchets, and conflicts; resonant, too, in profane history for its fifty drawbridges—the gift of the imagination and pawky Scotch humour of George Buchanan, Latinist, publicist, and tutor to that high and mighty Prince, the British Solomon, James I. of England and VI. of Scotland. The drawbridges